


if i bleed too much, it’s my consequence

by azvremoon



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/F, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Light Angst, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Religious Discussion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:42:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29520342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azvremoon/pseuds/azvremoon
Summary: “Then we’ll wait half a year,” Mercedes says, smiling with so much determination hidden in her deceiving gaze. “We’ll make it to the next Verdant Rain Moon, won’t we?”“We will,” Dorothea replies weakly, not convinced in the slightest but warmed by Mercedes’ conviction. Mercedes always believes so fervently and Dorothea would be envious if she wasn’t so proud of the woman’s resolve.(Dorothea cannot sleep and finds herself alone in the cathedral. Somehow, Mercedes always manages to find her.)
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault/Mercedes von Martritz
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	if i bleed too much, it’s my consequence

**Author's Note:**

> The base work used to write this fic was originally posted last November, but like all my fics from 2020, I’m not overly fond of it. However, I love this ship and I still wanted to have a fic of them, so I rewrote it in its entirety.

War has not been kind to Fodlan, although Dorothea had never expected anything less from the conflict that has nearly sent her comrades straight down into death’s clutches. 

The monastery is a bleak shadow of its former self. It had been overflowing once, filled to the brim with students, soldiers and devotees alike. Now, its glory is lost to ruin.

Dorothea finds herself staring uselessly at the rubble which still litters the front of the cathedral. Such gawking will do her no good, but Dorothea is a glutton for punishment at times. Part of her impulsively wishes to run her fingertips over shattered stained glass and bleed for her own sake rather than for the fueling of war. 

Instead, she tip-toes down the aisle and hesitantly perches on one of the old wooden seats, as if she expects it to fall apart at a single touch. Garreg Mach feels so fragile now, it wouldn’t surprise her if it did.

Every inch of this place reminds Dorothea of better days, when she was clueless enough to not recognise the signs of the impending fallout coming for Fodlan.

But Dorothea was oblivious then, too busy switching sides and finding comfort in a different classroom. There had been something so inviting about the Blue Lions and changing classes had felt natural, like something inevitable, as if the red and black path was too dangerous to trek on.

She understands now, stationed on the front lines, hands tainted from the casualties, that even if this was the path that seemed better, it was never going to be a stable or safe road. It is not a peaceful path of a pacifist, but it is the path Dorothea is convinced will lead to a brighter future.

There’s not much hope left, but Dorothea attempts to will herself to continue walking. It might not be working. Mercedes is still soft-spoken, but something has hardened her now, sharpened her edges, adding a powerful edge to her voice.

Dorothea does not feel the same growth in her own bones. Something in her has cracked beyond repair. Was has ravaged whatever confidence she had left and now she feels weary under the weight of the bodies piling up in the church’s graveyard.

She thinks she lost the ability to keep smiling in the face of death when the could-have-beens and the what-ifs began to overload her mind. Perhaps Dorothea could have convinced the rest of her former class to join this side,  _ her side.  _ Perhaps she could have dragged them here, kicking and screaming.

There was no need for this endless bloodshed. Edelgard could have offered an amicable agreement, a treaty to end this bloodthirst, but she did not. Instead, she brought Fodlan’s worst days into fruition and Dorothea’s faction must see it through to the end, for better or for worse.

Dorothea has no one to ask if she should regret her own choices, not when the goddess is nothing to her. She has tried before, attempted prayers to a goddess she does not believe in, but each and every attempt has the words caught in her throat. 

A sharp noise of a rock caught under someone’s foot echoes through the roofless cathedral and Dorothea turns her head, a tentative smile lifting up the corners of her lips. Pale hair loose around her face, her usual hat and veil absent, there stands Mercedes. 

“Mercie, what are you doing here so late?” Dorothea asks, attempting to make her voice sound steady even if it wishes to tremble and shudder at the sight of the person who makes Dorothea weakest of all.

“I was looking for you, of course.” Mercedes’ voice is as sweet and gentle as ever, comforting even though it is tinged with clear fatigue. “I just knew I’d find you here. The view of the stars is so pretty, after all.”

They both know that Dorothea was stuck in her own head, too busy from shaking in the cold to pay attention to the night sky’s constellations. But Mercedes always treads carefully and Dorothea doesn’t understand how she manages to be so observant,  _ too  _ observant, always piling others' needs on her shoulders.

“The ram is very bright tonight,” Mercedes points out, casting her gaze up to the stars wistfully. “I’ve always liked that one, ever since I was a child. It’s said the goddess put it there to remind us all to keep strong in our beliefs, no matter what.”

“I’m fond of the vulture myself,” Dorothea murmurs, arms tight around her chest as the chill air sinks into her exposed skin. “The stars were never bright in the capital, except that one. Like it was making music just for me to sing too. It'll be more than half a year till it shows up again, though.”

“Then we’ll wait half a year,” Mercedes says, smiling with so much determination hidden in her deceiving gaze. “We’ll make it to the next Verdant Rain Moon, won’t we?”

Dorothea swallows, shallow fear spiking up her spine as she considers the battles ahead. “We will,” she replies weakly, not convinced in the slightest but warmed by Mercedes’ conviction. Mercedes always believes so fervently and Dorothea would be envious if she wasn’t so proud of the woman’s resolve.

The goddess is nothing for Dorothea. She has no crutch for her war-weary body to lean against. But the goddess is everything for Mercedes and when Dorothea catches a glimpse of her hopeful eyes and her faithful hands clasped together, she knows while she could never find solace in the church’s teachings, she can find hope in Mercedes’ earnest devotion. 

Devotion will always be for a different cause. Paying respects to the ghosts of your past, to your students, to the battle-torn kingdom of Faerghus, to the Church of Seiros - Dorothea may not share these devotions, but she has her own, and she’ll protect the focal point of it until the enemy runs a sword through her spine.

She watches the moonlight glint off Mercedes’ blue-gold earrings, casting a soft glow over the curve of her cheeks, and finds her breathtaking beyond belief. 

Dorothea has always yearned for the love of someone who sees beyond the reputation of a songstress. It’s strange, but she had once thought the professor may have been that person, so stone-faced at first that caring about beauty would have never crossed their mind. 

Mercedes had become that person who managed to dig past Dorothea’s defences and finally saw her as the lonely woman scorned by war, as something more than just a voice stuck on an opera’s stage. She extends her hand out to those in need, regardless of their faith or the duty that may tie them to Faerghus.

Dorothea finds her beautiful, because she does no wrong and speaks earnestly with her golden heart in her open palms, beating for the sole purpose of being compassionate, a confidant, someone that her comrades can always rely on to sew together their wounds. And guarded Dorothea finds herself willing to crack open her own chest and repay that honesty in kind.

While the blood of an aristocrat may run through Mercedes’ veins, she is nothing like the nobility that Dorothea holds in contempt. Mercedes was not served the ignorance of society on a silver platter, she faced challenge after challenge with her head held high and her perseverance ever-growing.

Dorothea let the trauma turn her sour and Mercedes fought against it to be kind. They are two sides of the same coin - reason versus faith, bold and burning red versus pale and unassuming beige, bright green eyes filled with the charm of an actress and the soft, serene blue gaze that speaks of heartfelt loyalty. 

The heel of Mercedes’ shoes tapping against the ground rouses Dorothea from her daydreaming, the noise a  _ click-clack  _ which breaks through the quiet of a cathedral at midnight. The woman comes to stand before her, the black skirt of her dress brushing against Dorothea’s legs, her eyes level with Mercedes’ clasped hands as if she is still stuck in prayer.

Her fingers untangle, carefully rising to rest over Dorothea’s jaw, and the touch spreads warm across her cold skin, tinting her cheekbones a light shade of red. Gently, Mercedes tilts her face up and Dorothea feels her breath hitch, staring up at her lover with the stars scattered behind her head like they are bestowing her with a galaxy-made halo.

Their lips slot together, Dorothea’s eyes fluttering shut as she melts into a tender kind of kiss that hopefully does not teeter on heresy. Dorothea does not know if the church shuns love like this, two women filling in for each others’ flaws despite their birth place or their status.

But how could it be a sin, when Mercedes only brings peace in her loving embraces? If the fate the goddess set in stone for Dorothea was ever meant to be anything other than finding solace in Mercedes' arms, then Dorothea is glad she has made her own path, even if it is a one that treads over battlefields.

But she distracts herself from such matters as best as she can. She’ll assist Ashe and Dedue in the greenhouse when she wakes too early, brushing the dirt off their noses and pretending that the sight of flowers that would often end up in celebratory bouquets at the end of a performance doesn’t make her skin crawl. 

When Seteth is swamped in his duties, she’ll sit by Flayn’s side at the dock. Dorothea may hate Flayn’s favourite activity - well, hate is a strong word, but she has never had any fondness for fishing. Still, Flayn, bright and cheerful Flayn, does not deserve the loneliness that Dorothea became far too accustomed to as a street orphan. 

If it’s safe enough, when the empire’s forces aren’t breathing down their necks, she’ll drag Yuri out of the shadowed Abyss and up into the burning sun. There are still villages nearby, children with nowhere else to run to, and together they sing subdued songs that reminds Dorothea of better times. 

But nothing is as distracting as Mercedes, her thin lips pressed lightly against Dorothea’s own, her curves soft to the touch as Dorothea’s hands trail up her side till they rest over the dip of her waist. 

“Let’s return back to bed, okay?” Mercedes whispers when she pulls back, their noses still brushing as she smiles so lovingly. Perhaps it is sappy of her, bordering on the perspective of a hopeless romantic that Dorothea was never meant to be, but the lack of  _ home  _ in the sentence is enough to take her breath away.

Dorothea is already home and has been since the Ethereal Moon rose over Fodlan and Dorothea found her devotion once more in the aftermath of a bandit raid, pushing Mercedes out the way of a sword as she made thunder crackle through the attacker’s bones.

Hours later, Dorothea had peered across to the other side of an unused dining table, trying not to breathe in dust as she stared at Mercedes, the woman hiding a delicate laugh behind her palm as Sylvain and Felix quickly devolved into another one of their petty arguments.

Suddenly, it had felt as if Dorothea had finally remembered how to breathe once again, grounded back down to reality by Mercedes’ soft smile. Dorothea was forced to smother the grin of a lovesick fool in another bite of one of Mercedes’ homemade tarts. She no longer hides that side of her now. 

“As you wish, love,” Dorothea sighs, rising to her feet and taking Mercedes’ small hand in her own, fingers interlocked, both of their bodies craving some kind of comfort away from the cold. 

The winter wind howls through the night, snowflakes drifting down to rest over the edge of the bridge that connects the cathedral to the rest of the monastery. Dorothea peers out at the view, nothing but green grass for miles, and wonders when the forest will too end up blood-stained.

The path back to the dormitory is one that they know well, from that year of strict schedule as students. They are careful to keep quiet, not wanting to raise their comrades from much needed slumber, even though they are likely finding sleep a rather difficult task. Everyone knows Felix spends most nights in the training arena and none of them can blame him for it.

Sharing Dorothea’s room was the logical conclusion to the issue of where to sleep, with Annette just a few doors away in case they ever need to visit her when the nightmares get a little too rough. Dorothea turns the doorknob slowly, wary of any creaking noises.

“Would you mind helping me undress, dear?” Mercedes requests when the door clicks shut behind her. The exhaustion seems to have finally hit her, no strength left in her overworked arms, and so Dorothea undoes the buttons to her bodice when Mercedes’ trembling fingers cannot.

Curling a cotton shawl around Mercedes’ bare shoulders, Dorothea leans down and presses her lips to the curve of her neck, to her chin, over her cheeks and on her forehead. She wishes to shower her with love, as if the affection could erase the dark circles from beneath her baby blues.

They tumble into bed, Dorothea curling around Mercedes’ back, as if the extra inch of height she has on the healer is enough to cage Mercedes away from the world. The fabric of Mercedes’ white nightgown scratches uncomfortably against Dorothea’s chest, but she can’t find it in her to complain and ruin this brief moment of respite.

“Will you sing me a lullaby, Dorothea?” she mumbles sleepily, dragging one of Dorothea’s hands up from where it rests on her stomach, pressing a soft kiss of thanks to her palm. “I apologize, I don’t mean to be so demanding-”

“It’s alright, Mercie. Of course I will.” Dorothea smiles into her temple, nosing through the soft strands of hair. “I’d do anything for you,” she whispers. The admission feels too great and she pretends she does not see Mercedes’ eyes turn glossy with tears.

_ I sleep better when you sing  _ is often code for  _ I can’t fall asleep unless I hear your voice and I know you are safe.  _ Dorothea cannot blame her, not when she will wake up in cold sweat, hours later, panting through shaky sobs as Mercedes stirs at her side from the noise.

Her dreams are not kind, not that Dorothea remembers them ever being so. Reliving looking into Ferdinand’s eyes with thunder crackling over palms, as she pretended that a storm was not brewing behind her rib cage at the reminder that she will always be a traitor, is her worst night terror.

War is a cruel thing. Dorothea tries to convince herself not to care, to ignore that she once stood side-by-side with these men and women, but she never manages to shove away the grief and force herself to be numb. 

She lost Ferdinand to her own hands, and Bernadetta to a fire that no one could keep under control. And when they eventually find themselves in the capital, they will have to face Edelgard head on. Dorothea prefers not to think about that.

Mercedes rises, blinking blearily, but she recognises the way the light in Dorothea’s eyes has dimmed and scoots over to wrap an arm around her waist. The touch is grounding and Dorothea feels soothed, just ever-so-slightly, as her breathing begins to settle.

_ I cared about them and yet Ferdie is dead because of me,  _ Dorothea thinks, burying her head into Mercedes’ shoulder, trying to ignore memories of thoron flashing from her hands when Ferdinand had swung the lance down over his shoulder.

Sun-kissed hair stained with blood, face pale and filled with exhaustion, eyes wide open as the magic shocked through his system. One of them had to die and Dorothea had no choice but to sacrifice Ferdinand’s life for her own. She hates herself for that. Part of her thinks she always will.

But this is the path she has chosen, against all odds, against the will of the goddess, and so Dorothea must walk it, even as her legs give out beneath her. If for anything, then for the safety of the woman who can wash away any evidence of the war. 

When Mercedes heals her wounds, the broken skin beneath Dorothea’s cloak stitching and sewing itself back together, it is a reminder that no matter how much she has lost, she has gained something in its stead. 

“It never stops hurting, does it?” Mercedes whispers, the knowing tone of someone who has faced what is left behind of her beloved brother over and over again. Dorothea dips her head down into her hair and she smells of all things sweet, of the sugary treats she spends hours baking.

Sometimes, Dorothea is terrified to touch her like this. After all, thorns are all this rose has left. Dorothea worries she may prick Mercedes’ kindness to pieces eventually.

“It doesn’t,” she agrees. “But I don’t have a choice, Mercie.” The woman’s fingers come to rest over Dorothea’s cheek, her touch so gentle as if Mercedes imagines Dorothea could shatter beneath her fingertips. “I wish I did. I wish we were all on the same side. But wishing does nothing and I can’t do anything to stop it now.”

“You’re not alone, Dorothea,” Mercedes murmurs simply, reaching up to press a kiss onto Dorothea’s forehead, brushing strands of messy hair out of her still tear-filled eyes. “Not now, not when I’m with you.”. 

Dorothea does not have much faith, but what she has left, she will gift to the gentle caress of Mercedes’ hands. Even if the future seems uncertain, Dorothea is certain that the healer will always be there to put her back together, piece by broken piece. 

“Please don’t let me go.” She does not crack, but her voice wavers for a second, and Mercedes wastes no time before gathering the woman into the dip of her neck, rocking her back-and-forth gently as Dorothea stains her skin with tears. 

War is nothing more than an elaborate theatre production with more consequences than audience laughter. You can never return to the state of previous acts, the show must go on till the curtains fall. Dorothea is an unwilling actor, but her hands link with Mercedes as they take their final bow and somehow, some part of her thinks things will be alright. 

A new dawn will arise soon. The birds will fly happily over a peaceful Fodlan. And maybe then, Dorothea will feel as if the pain is worth it, all because Mercedes is safe by her side. 


End file.
